


alphabet town

by orphan_account



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, High School, M/M, race is mute, race's pov, spot is described in second person, spot is sympathetic, they're both bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Somehow, every single day for the rest of the year, you came and you sat next to me. It was always, “this seat taken?” or “may I?” with you. You were like a vampire in one of those crappy Netflix shows, the kind who can’t come into someone’s house without being invited.Finally, after about a month of sitting next to you, I got to the library early and stuck a neon yellow sticky-note onto your bean bag.You came in that day and seemed distraught when you noticed the note occupying your normal spot. You picked it up, then slowly a smile stretched across your face.You don’t have to ask.I really liked it when you smiled.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 21
Kudos: 56





	1. boys don't cry

**Author's Note:**

> good evening folks! 
> 
> welcome back to another episode of naz-found-this-piece-of-writing-in-the-depths-of-her-google-docs-and-now-she's-posting-it-with-no-editing-whatsoever!
> 
> quick disclaimer: i have zero medical expertise, so everything that is written in here about race's muteness is a product of a few google searches and a deep-dive on wikipedia. if there's anything medically incorrect, PLEASE point it out so i can fix it!! 
> 
> also, please try to excuse any errors in tense -- this was originally going to be written in present tense, but (because i'm an idiot) i decided to change it to past tense, then past continuous, then past perfect, etc etc. if there are any glaring mistakes in that department, don't hesitate to let me know. 
> 
> enjoy <3

Silence is something I’ve grown used to. 

The lull in conversation that everyone seems so afraid of. The inevitable quiet that hangs in the air like a delicate glass chandelier, counting down the seconds until someone breaks it then comes crashing down into tiny shards. Shards that can cut and dig into someone’s skin, making them gasp and hold back a cry of pain. Or, one could compare it to an avalanche -- the serene stillness that is so beautiful to look at yet so daunting, one that can fall apart the moment someone makes a sound. It will bury one under its icy remains, making them suffocate and grasp for some kind of loophole they can climb out of. 

Unlike every other person in this world who can’t seem to handle silence, I’ve stepped back and looked at it from a different perspective. 

I’ve taken to love silence, to accept it with warm and welcoming arms. It shouldn’t be turned away, not after all the hate and misjudgment it goes through. It can’t harm a single person, no matter what anyone else says. It’s an area of negative space, not a vacuum. Vacuums are things that suck up anything breathing and crush it into nothingness -- negative space is just space that can either be filled in by the tip of an artist’s brush or be left empty to emphasize what the artist is trying to say.

Silence is a rarity. It’s a form of art, not a void.

But I’m the only one who seems to realize that. 

I’d like to think it’s not because I can no longer speak anymore. I hope it’s not because my vocal cords have been unfairly ripped away from me and sold to the grimy hands of science. Because that’s not it. 

Yeah, right. 

That day the doctors tore my voice box out of my throat -- claiming it was defective and would cause nothing but trouble for me in my coming years -- that was the day that I learned to love silence. 

I was only five years old when the surgery happened; I was oblivious and had no idea what was going on. Why should I have? Even if the doctors or the nurses or my parents tried to explain what was going on, I wouldn’t have understood them. However, one of the main things that I remember hearing from the people in mint green scrubs with the cold hands was the word “aphonia”. 

At the time, I had no idea what it meant. I thought it was a funny word, and I remember repeating it in my head over and over again while I sat on the white sheets of the hospital bed and kicked my feet. 

God, I remember it so vividly. It could’ve happened yesterday for all I know. 

I think it had been a month prior to the surgery when I had first told my parents that my voice felt funny. I think I’d told them that it felt like, “lots of little rabbits jumping up and down inside my throat”, and that little eloquent sentence had sent them into a spiral of madness. 

They had called my pediatrician first, then the family doctor, and after a couple of hours of researching, my parents had come to the unofficial conclusion that I had a very bad flu. Except, I’d had the flu before, and I told them it didn’t feel like that, because the last time I’d had it I’d thrown up in the bathtub and my throat had been very wet and congested. But this time, it had just been dry and swollen. 

I’d told them that it had been going on for a couple of weeks, only it was just now that it was getting really bad. 

That made them worry a whole lot. I remember going to the hospital, and I remember that a nice lady with braided hair had taken us into a white room. I remember the white very clearly because there was so much of it -- pale white painted walls, sheets on a white bed that was the color of printer paper, white curtains, a white linoleum floor, two white plastic guest chairs in the corner. It was awful. 

I remember sitting on that papery bed at only five years old, swinging my scraped up legs and humming a tune I’d heard on TV earlier that morning. I remember my parents being in the white room with me, my father talking in a hushed voice to the nice woman while my mother sat anxiously tapping her foot in one of the plastic chairs. 

I only remember snippets of what was said during that day. There were a lot of big words that the doctors said -- words like “bilateral disruption” and “thyroid cancer” and “tumor”. But there were other parts, too, that I’d understood out of context, like “damaged” and “surgery” and “permanent”. 

They had said “permanent” quite a lot.

The next few parts of that memory are very fuzzy, and I think it’s because they put me on some kind of medication. 

At some point, my mother had started crying, and my father looked very disappointed. It was the kind of disappointment he wore when one of his three kids received a bad grade or got into a fight at school. When I had asked them what was wrong in my wispy voice, my mother had just cried even harder. I vaguely remember being taken out of that room and into another white room by the nice lady, but my parents hadn’t come with me. 

I remember being scared because I knew that surgery was when doctors cut into people and took their hearts and lungs out then stitched them back up. I remember that I started crying, too, because I needed my heart to breath and stuff. I didn’t want the doctors to take my breath away. 

Nonetheless, I was alone in the second white room, staring at the eggshell-colored walls until some doctors came in and began poking and prodding at me with metal things.

Sometime after that, I think I fell asleep, because the next thing I remember was waking up in the white bed under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights with my family standing around me. 

I remember smiling and thinking, _“Hey, that wasn’t so bad!”_

But when I opened my mouth to tell my sister to stop crying and my parents to stop fussing over me, no sound came out. And that’s when I figured out that the doctors hadn’t taken my heart -- they’d taken my voice. 

From that day forth, I’d become known as The Kid Who Can’t Talk. Some people thought I was deaf, others thought I didn’t speak English (which made sense at the time, considering my blatantly Italian family). But not once did someone ever call me “mute”. 

That’s what I was. Mute. Cancerous. Broken. There are a million words to describe the thing that I am, that I was. 

I had been pushed around and bullied all the way through elementary school for never speaking, and it had escalated tremendously during middle school. But, by the time high school rolled around, everyone had pretty much forgotten I existed. 

It was fair enough, considering I hadn’t spoken a word to anyone in over nine years. 

Not to mention that I began to hate noise. 

It wasn’t a sudden thing, really -- it took me a while to grow into. But after a couple of years without a voice box, noise became my enemy. My ears were way more alert than any normal person and they picked up the slightest sounds at the most inconvenient moments. This meant that any time I was in a crowded hallway or classroom, my head was flooded with the voices and noises that people were constantly making. The clang of metal lockers slamming shut, the high-pitched squeaking of sneakers on linoleum, the laughter that was deafening in more ways than one.  
It hurt me both physically and mentally to be around noise; physically being that I got dizzy and lightheaded whenever there was too much clamor, and mentally being that I was hurt I couldn’t make those sounds like everyone else could.

It stings when people around you are talking and you can hear them but they can’t hear you.

I started spending my days alone in the media center and library after school with a pair of noise-canceling headphones on and a book in my hands. At home, I used ASL with my parents and my siblings, all of which were people who knew how I felt about others having conversations around me. 

They were the only ones who ever seemed to understand that silence was quickly becoming my best friend. They respected that. Other people did not. I personally felt that if I was going to be subjected to a life without my voice, it was at least fair that other people could quiet down. Was that so much to ask? 

I love silence. It’s that simple. I grew up with it. It was there for me when my voice was ripped out of my throat, it was there for me when my friends at school turned their backs on me, and it was there for me when I was most vulnerable. Silence is delicate, yet I have managed not to break it for more than twenty years. 

The only problem I have with silence is the fact that it’s lonely. 

God, it’s so lonely. 

The kind of loneliness you feel when you’ve been locked out of a party. Inside, there is music and dancing and laughter and drama, while outside there is nothing. You can only look through the keyhole and press your ear to the door to get even a glimpse of what’s happening without you. You can see the silhouettes of people pressing up against one another, rocking their hips and singing along with the blaring music, having the time of their life. But you are shackled to the outside, a lonely place where the air is still and the quiet is deafening. 

I am that person. I have been alone in silence for so long that it has become my best friend. And I’ll that admit for the longest time, I was convinced that I would be alone forever. After all, the doctors had said it was “permanent”. 

But now, there’s you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from the song "boys don't cry" by the cure :)


	2. no way out

You are the boy who slipped into my life without even knowing it, and you have changed me so much it’s almost unbelievable. You just showed up one day out of the blue, teasing me with those striking eyes and that unmovable smirk. You snapped your fingers and my world skyrocketed.

I don’t know when it happened, exactly. It was back in my early years of high school, the ones where I was practically invisible. But I remember the day you waltzed into my life like it happened this morning. 

I was sitting in the library during lunch as per usual, my headphones secured over my ears and a copy of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's _The Hounds of Baskerville_ sitting open in my lap. I thought I was the only one in the library -- save for the student clerk who worked behind the counter -- until you walked in. 

I remember glancing up from my book and seeing you saunter with ease into the serene book-lined room, your hands in the pockets of your jeans and your backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. 

There was nothing special about you other than the fact that you were particularly short and quite skinny, but I was short too so I didn’t think much of it. Your hair was a strange muted brown; the color of caramel when it hit the light, but remaining dark in the shadows. It was kind of long, too, falling in front of your eyes and around the back of your neck. You were wearing black jeans and a loose red flannel was hanging off your shoulders limply, and underneath that, there was a graphic t-shirt advertising a band I wasn’t familiar with. On your feet were a pair of maroon Doc Martens with mismatching laces and scuffed up toes. 

I recall how you stood in the middle of the dimly-lit carpeted room moving your eyes around, scanning the endless shelves as if you were on the hunt for something. Then your eyes fell on little old me, sitting in a bean-bag tucked against the wall between two shelves. You weren’t smiling but you looked rather thoughtful. 

I remember meeting your eyes -- your mosaics of gold and green -- and you tilted your head slightly to the side. You approached me without caution, then dropped your backpack on the floor next to me and gestured to the empty Laz-Y-Boy beside me. 

You asked me something but I couldn’t hear you because my headphones were on. Realizing this, you raised a finger to the side of your head and tapped your ear. 

I drew my eyebrows together and pulled my headphones down, a little irritated that this boy who I’d never seen before was interrupting my quiet time. 

You repeated your question, “Is this seat taken?”

I remember my gaze fluttering over to the empty bean bag chair next to mine, and I internally sighed and shook my head. 

Your lips turned up ever so slightly and ungracefully plopped down next to me. I winced at the crunching sound of the styrofoam filling inside the bean bag. You didn’t seem to mind. You opened up your beaten-up backpack and pulled out a sticker-plagued laptop. 

I remember trying to ignore you, putting my headphones back on and reopening my book, but then you said something else and I had to take them off again. 

“...you know the wifi password?” 

I remember suppressing an eye roll and jerking my head towards a sign on the wall that had the server name and password scrawled on it. 

You blinked. “Oh, thanks.”

I shrugged and went back to my book, nestling further into the bean bag to keep as much distance between you and me as possible.

You didn’t talk for the rest of the lunch period, typing incessantly on that ancient-looking laptop. When the obnoxious sound of the bell signaling sixth period chimed over the loudspeakers, I remember you shutting your laptop and standing up while you slung your backpack over your shoulder. You looked over at me while I stowed my book back in my messenger bag and let my headphones slide off my ears and hang around my neck. 

I quirked an eyebrow at you. 

You smirked. “Same time tomorrow?” 

I remember being confused for a moment, then shrugging indifferently. _I could care less about where you spend your lunch period_ , I thought. 

You didn’t seem to get my message. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Then you put two fingers to your forehead and saluted. “See you later.” Then I remember you spinning on your heel and sauntering back out the way you came in. 

I watched you go, wondering briefly if I was hallucinating. 

\---

It turns out that I wasn’t. 

You came back the next day, but this time you didn’t ask for the wifi password. You just cocked your head and said, “Mind if I join you?” 

Like the day before, I just shook my head. 

You sat down, pulled out your laptop, and didn’t say a word for the rest of lunch. You just sat there quietly, typing away like there was no tomorrow. The bell rang, you put your laptop away, I took my headphones off, you saluted me, and we both parted ways. 

At first, I remember thinking how strange it was that you had come back. But then again, it was strange when you asked to sit next to me in the first place. It wasn’t like the rest of the chairs were full -- we were the only people in the library. 

For the first week, you hadn’t talked much at all. You always asked if you could join me, and I always said yes. Well, not _said_ it, but you knew what I meant. After that, not many words were exchanged. Sometimes you’d make little remarks under your breath about whatever you were writing, but I don’t think you realized you were saying them until you saw me glancing at you with my lips slightly upturned. It was funny how oblivious you were to your own show of emotion. 

Somehow, every single day for the rest of the year, you came and you sat next to me. It was always, “this seat taken?” or “may I?” with you. You were like a vampire in one of those crappy Netflix shows, the kind who can’t come into someone’s house without being invited. 

Finally, after about a month of sitting next to you, I got to the library early and stuck a neon yellow sticky-note onto your bean bag. 

You came in and seemed distraught when you noticed the note occupying your normal spot. You picked it up, then slowly a smile stretched across your face. 

_You don’t have to ask._

I really liked it when you smiled. I smiled back. 

I remember another specific day when you came into the library with a distressed look on your face. You dropped onto your bean bag and put in some earbuds and closed your eyes instead of taking out your laptop as you usually did. You hadn’t even looked at me. I felt useless. I couldn’t ask you what was wrong, I couldn’t say or do anything to help you feel better -- I couldn’t communicate with you at all. 

Instead, I put down the book I was reading -- _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton -- and reached over to tentatively touch your shoulder. 

You opened your eyes and met mine. Yours were very sad; mine were concerned. 

Then you said, “I don’t know your name.” 

I remember that sentence had sent me into a near panic attack. 

I looked at you like an animal caught in headlights, my mind racing at a million miles per second. I blinked at you with a blank expression on my face. 

You blinked back. “Are you gonna tell me?” 

My palms were becoming sweaty. I moved my hand off your shoulder. 

Your eyes were boring into mine, swimming with so many different emotions that I couldn’t seem to follow you. “It’s not that hard of a request, is it?” 

I gripped the book in my hands, the worn cover bending under the pads of my fingertips. I broke eye contact and looked down at the familiar black and white cover of my favorite book. I’d read it about four times that year; I knew the pages back to front, and I could recite the first few lines off the top of my head. I loved that book so much. 

So instead of answering your question, I flipped it open to the page I was on and pointed at the first word I saw. You leaned over and looked at where my finger was, and you laughed. Loudly. 

“Race?” You said in disbelief. “Your name is Race?” 

I shrugged and closed the book again. 

“You’re kidding.” 

I bit my bottom lip. 

You looked at me strangely, like I was some kind of unidentified fish in the middle of an aquarium. I remember squirming under your hard gaze, wiping my sweaty palms on the thighs of my jeans. 

After a while, you said, “Well I’ll be damned. That isn’t your real name, is it?” 

I shook my head. 

You had that smirk on your face that you always wore when writing something funny or risque on your laptop. “You gonna tell me your real one?” 

It was my turn to glare at you. _No, idiot_ , my mind said. 

You clicked your tongue. “That’s a shame. And here I was, about to open up to you, spill all my dirty little secrets. But you won’t even tell me your name.” 

My glare hardened. You were being kind of irritating. 

But then you laughed and bumped your shoulder against mine playfully. “Lighten up! I’m just messing with you. Race is a beautiful name.” 

I frowned. _You’re mocking me._

You snickered. “Hey now, don’t get all worked up or anything. I guess I better tell you my name now that I know yours, huh. Isn’t that how it works?” 

_God, you’re talking a lot._

“Sean.” You said. “My name’s Sean. But you can call me whatever you please.” 

I raised both of my eyebrows this time. 

Your smirk slid off your face. Then, bluntly, “Are you ever going to say anything to me?” 

_Well crap._ My eyes had retreated to the carpeted floor of the library. 

The dreaded question had finally surfaced. After a month of comfortable silence, you just had to break it. 

I chewed anxiously on my bottom lip and toyed with the frayed edge of my sweater just to avoid your steely gaze. Then, slowly, I shook my head. 

Your shoulders slumped and you leaned towards me even more. “Why not?” 

Without looking at you, I tapped the faded pink scar on my throat right where my larynx should have been. My heart was thumping so loud I could hear it in my ears. 

Your eyes softened in understanding and you drew back. “Wait, you can’t…?”

I shook my head. 

Your mouth fell open. “Well, why didn’t you tell me that?!” 

My nostrils had flared as I finally looked up to meet your gaze. 

You seemed to realize your mistake. “Oh, uh, I mean--” 

I held up a hand to stop you. _I know what you mean._

Now you were the one shaking your head. “No, wait a second. You should’ve done something to at least let me know you couldn’t talk. I… do you know sign language?” 

A hesitant nod. 

Your face lit up. “I’ve been doing this all wrong!” Then, in one rapid movement, your hands came up and you began gesturing wildly. It took me a moment to realize that you were signing in ASL: _I know sign language too._

My eyes widened and a smile broke out on my face. I don’t think I’d ever smiled that hard before. I tapped my chin with my pointer finger then thrust out into the “hang-loose” symbol. _Really?_

You nodded with newfound excitement, then moved your hand up and wiggled your fingers then tapped your ear and chin. _My mother is deaf._

I nodded in understanding. Then I tapped my chest and then mimed turning a knob on my throat. _I’m mute._

You nodded then signed quickly, _I figured._ Then, a tilt of your head. _Why?_

I had shrugged. On second thought, I began moving my fingers slowly for emphasis: _Cancer._

Your eyes went wide. You opened your mouth to say something, but--

The bell rang. 

I stuffed _The Outsiders_ into my satchel then pushed myself out of the bean bag chair. I looked down at you still sprawled on the floor. We exchanged a look. I smiled feebly and held out my hand. You took it and pulled yourself up. 

I stared into your greenish-brown eyes and my heart had skipped. You smirked a little, then swung your backpack over your shoulder. Then you backed away and saluted me. 

“See you tomorrow, Race.” You said quickly, then you scurried out. 

I watched you go in a completely new way. 

You broke the silence that had been forced down on me since I was five years old. But strangely enough, I wasn’t being buried in the remains of the avalanche you started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from the song "no way out" by together pangea :)
> 
> also! because i like to be as accurate as possible with real world references, there is a sentence in _the outsiders_ that has the word race in it; it's actually one of my favorite quotes that cherry valence says in the book:
> 
> "rat race is a perfect name for it. we are always going and going and never asking where."


	3. me and we and i

Over the summer we didn’t see each other at all, but it wasn’t like I expected to. I didn’t know your phone number or your address. Inevitably, by the time junior year finally rolled around, I was convinced that you had forgotten about me. 

You proved me wrong. 

On the first day back from summer, I walked into the library to find you sitting in our bean bag nook. You grinned when you saw me and said, “Long time no see, huh Race?” 

I returned a sheepish smile, sat down next to you, and pulled out my novel of the week: _Wuthering Heights_ by Emily Bronte.

Over the next two years, you managed to grow closer and closer to me. We transitioned from the normal routine of you talking at me and instead transitioned to ASL; though it was wordless it still held that air of friendship and sarcasm. 

We also began to see each other outside of school, a feat completely alien to me at the time.

At first, we never went to your house; I always -- graciously -- hosted. The first time you came over was sometime after winter break during our senior year. 

I remember exactly how it happened, details and all, mostly because I couldn’t forget that day if I tried. 

It had been about a half-hour after school got out, and I was practically freezing to death at the bus stop across the street. On any other day, I would’ve just gotten a ride home from my mother, but that certainly wasn’t an option because she was in the process of delivering my newest little sister at the hospital. 

So, not only was I freezing, but I was also having a full-blown panic attack. 

For some reason which I never learned, you stayed late after school that day. And thank god you did, otherwise, I might not be here today. 

You came out of the front doors of the school wearing nothing but a jean jacket, some sweatpants, and a dark red beanie to keep the cold away. You noticed me almost immediately, standing across the street bundled up in a cocoon of scarves and a winter coat. 

You caught my eye and called, “Race, you need a ride or something? You’re turning blue!” 

I nodded animatedly, too cold to take my hands out of my pockets and produce a more dignified reply. 

You jogged across the street, not bothering to look both ways. “Are you okay?” you asked when you finally reached my quaking figure. “You’re shaking.”

When I didn’t answer, you grabbed my arm and tugged me. “Come on, my car’s down this way.” 

Once we’d made it inside the comfort of your leather upholstered Honda, you turned the key in the ignition. Warm air from the car’s heater blasted me in the face, but you made no move to pull out of the parking spot. 

“Hey, Race, look at me.” You said, leaning over the console. 

My entire face felt numb and my head was pounding and my heart was racing because _oh my god I was going to be an older brother oh my god._

I didn’t look at you. 

“Race.” You tried again.

Nothing.

“Antonio, talk to me.” 

That earned a sour look from my part. After months of pestering, I had finally given you my real name but strongly advised you not to use it. I had grown so used to you calling me Race, and I didn’t want anything to change.

You didn’t seem to care. “You’re as white as a sheet. What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Slowly, without meeting your eyes, I shook my head. My hand gestures were sloppy and slurred due to my shaking, but eventually, I managed to draw out: _mother… baby… hospital._

Your eyes went wide and you said aloud, “Your mom’s at the hospital?”

A nod. 

“I’m guessing the rest of your family’s there too, then.” 

Another nod.

“Want me to take you there?”

I looked up sharply and shook my head. _No,_ I signed, _I hate hospitals._

You signed back this time, taking note of my bristly behavior. Want to go home?

_Yes._

“Put your address into the GPS.” You instructed, tapping the dashboard then placing your hands on the steering wheel and pulling out of the school driveway. 

We drove the rest of the way in silence, one of your hands on the wheel and the other resting idly on my arm. It helped my shaking stop. 

We got to my house, you helped me out of the car, I fumbled for my keys, we got inside, you shut the door, and I collapsed. I slumped down onto my living room’s worn-out beige couch, almost taking you down with me but letting go just in time. 

You were too focused on me to take in the raw domesticity of my family’s humble townhouse; the hundreds of family photos hanging on the walls and the mantle, the pile of shoes all different sizes mounting by the front door, the ancient red, white, and green flag of Italy draped above the fireplace. You didn’t see any of it because you were too busy kneeling on the carpet by my side with hands gripping my arms. 

“Look at me, Antonio, look at me and breath,” you said in a steady but wary voice. 

My bones were still rattling and my heart was still pumping at an inhuman speed. I sucked in a wobbly breath, held it for a couple of seconds, then exhaled. 

“That’s it, just breath,” you cooed, rubbing my arms delicately and coaxing me out of my panicked state. 

I had never seen you so gentle before; I didn’t know you had it in you. 

“Better?” You asked after a spell of silence. 

I exhaled again. _Better,_ I signed. 

“Good,” You said. You moved your hands from my arms and tugged at my scarf. “Let’s get you out of these clothes, yeah? That might help.” 

I stuck out my lower lip. _But I’m cold,_ I gestured.

You rolled your eyes and signed back: _It’s warm in here, you’ll survive._

I sniffed and let you pull my scarf off and drape it on the back of the couch. Then you sat back on your heels to unlace my dirty green Converse while I worked away at the buttons on my coat. Once they were undone, you reached up and shrugged it off my shoulders and tossed it aside. Now I was only in a slightly wrinkled horizontally striped sweater, blue jeans, and fuzzy mismatched socks. 

We were face to face, only inches apart. I felt your hot breath on my cold cheeks. Your eyes were a cool, swirling green. 

I cleared my throat. 

You stood up awkwardly and brushed your hands on your sweatpants. “Right, um, can I get you something? Water, tea?” 

_A million dollars,_ I signed wryly. 

“Tea it is.” A hint of a smile ghosted your face as my normal demeanor seeped back in. “Um, where’s your kitchen?”

I pointed past the dining room. 

“Okay -- should I, uh, take off my shoes or anything?” 

_No, you’re fine._

“Okay. Be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” 

_I wouldn’t dare._ Your back was already turned so you didn’t catch my last remark. I still like to believe you had. 

You returned only a few minutes later holding a cup of steaming lavender chamomile. 

I suppressed a grin. _How’d you know that’s my favorite flavor?_

You shrugged and handed me the cup. _It was the only kind you had._

We spent the remainder of that winter evening sitting on the couch in comfortable silence, your feet brushing mine ever so softly. We didn’t turn the TV on because you knew how I felt about noisy things, and instead, we conversed in ASL for what felt like hours. We talked about the most cliche things, from books to homework to siblings. I learned you had one younger step-sister named Lilith, but you didn’t get along very well. You learned that I had an older brother and sister who were in college, as well as a younger sister who was currently on the way. My mother had always wanted an even amount of boys and girls, and now her wish was finally coming true. 

Remembering this, you called my dad’s mobile from our landline and explained to him why I wasn’t at the hospital. Thankfully, he forgave us both, saying that he kind of wished he was with us; the hospital was absolute chaos. He said that the entire thing wouldn’t be over until early the next morning, and he agreed to let you sleepover so I wasn’t alone for the night.   
Once that had been settled, we microwaved some leftover spaghetti and ate dinner in the living room. You finally even coaxed me into watching TV, but it ended up being some nature documentary that didn’t have a whole lot of obnoxious noise. 

We both ended up falling asleep on the couch, our feet tangled together unintentionally. 

We were woken up the next morning by my mother and father coming in the door, a brand new baby girl in tow. Her name was Maria. 

I cried and hugged my parents. You smiled and hugged me. 

It really helped that you were there with me. You had no idea, and I was never going to tell you, but you were my saving grace. 

Even if you made me watch the noisy television, even if you talked the whole time, even if you were really bad at making tea; I knew that in those twenty-four hours we had become best friends. 

That was also the first time I realized that I had feelings for you -- feelings that were a little more than just friendly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from the song "me and we and i" by the frights


	4. different now

I don’t know why I didn’t realize sooner.

It was so painstakingly obvious how I felt about you, I’m surprised you didn’t confront me yourself. I hung onto your every word and followed you around all the time like an obedient puppy dog. You had me wrapped around your bony little finger, and yet you did nothing. You treated me like I was just another person in your routine -- not a freak who couldn’t talk to save his life. 

You treated me as an equal. You didn’t look down on me like everyone else did. 

Funnily enough, even though I was the one that was head-over-heels for you, you made the first move. 

Sort of. 

It had been after our high school graduation ceremony. 

I was being mobbed by my abundance of weeping family members, all asking for photos of me with my cap and diploma, while you were sitting off to the side in one of the plastic folding chairs that had been set up for the outdoor reception. There was a soft smirk etched onto your face.

I caught your eye from a couple of yards away while I was being hugged by one of my many stout aunts, and I quietly mouthed _help me_ in your direction. 

You rolled your eyes and set down the glass of sparkling cider you’d been nursing, then got up and meandered over to my family. 

You tapped the aunt that was hugging me on the shoulder, and she released her hold on me to turn around. 

“Pardon me, but I don’t believe we’ve met before.” You spoke with a masquerade of boyish charm lacing your words. “I’m Sean, a friend of Antonio’s.” 

My aunt -- I can’t remember which one it was -- smiled sweetly and shook your hand. “It is a pleasure!” she said in English, her prominent Italian accent overwhelming her speech. “I had no idea my little _corritrice_ had any friends!” 

My nostrils flared and I glared at the back of my aunt’s curly-haired head. _Rude._

You threw your head back and laughed with a glint in your eye. “Oh, trust me, ma’am, he has plenty.” 

I raised my eyebrows at you from over her shoulder. You playfully glanced at me. 

Auntie Higgins -- we’ll just call her that for now -- seemed delighted. “You are a very nice boy, Sean,” she said, putting a rather small hand on your arm. “You know, I have a daughter that is your age! She is right over there, pretty one with the braids. See her?” 

_Okay, Auntie Higgins,_ I thought immediately. _Stop trying to marry away your daughter to people you don’t know._

I shot you a look telling you that I wanted to leave. Desperately.

You nodded almost imperceptibly, then returned your attention to my aunt. “I’m sure she’s lovely, missus Higgins, but Antonio and I should head inside. We wouldn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to his many friends.” 

“Of course, you two go right ahead.” 

“Thanks, ma’am. It was nice meeting you!” You started backing away and brushed my arm in the process, a wordless message for, _let’s get out of here._

I waved to my aunt politely, then followed as you started off towards the main quad. 

Casually, you reached back and caught my wrist to tug me with you through the throng of people, not making eye contact with me as you did so. Together we squeezed through the assortments of folding chairs and buffet tables until we made it behind the bleachers where the entrance to the back of the school was. 

I raised a questioning eyebrow at you, wondering where exactly we were going. 

You shot me a devilish look and tugged me through the back doors and into the empty linoleum hallways of the school; the place we had grown to both love and despise. 

It was weird being there when the classrooms were dark and depleted of all students and teachers. The lockers were bare and the walls were devoid of the many posters that had accumulated over the year. 

The faint sounds of the reception could be heard through the painted brick walls, but with your hand clasped around mine and our sneakers squeaking against the stark-white tiles, they might as well have been miles away. 

You pulled me down one last familiar hallway and then into the open doors of the school library. Our safe-haven. 

All of the overhead lights were off so only the grey sunlight filtering through the large rectangular windows lit up the room. Even so, I could make out every single shelf stacked with almost every single book I had ever read. 

This was my home-away-from-home -- my alphabet town -- and you knew that. 

Not letting go of my hand, you walked into the center of the room and pulled off your royal blue cap, tossing it onto the carpet carelessly. Then you hopped up on one of the tables, sitting so your legs were dangling a foot off the ground. 

I drew closer to you, my fingers tightening around yours.

Your face was tired and disheveled, yet a smile still played on your lips.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” you said after a long while of staring at our entwined hands. 

I nodded, my eyes not straying from the way your fingers laced between mine. I made no move for you to stop. 

Your head tilted slightly, “I mean, I’m not complaining really. School sucks. But still, it’s gonna be weird not seeing you every day.” 

That made me look up, brows furrowed. 

Seeing my confused look you elaborated. “I mean, you’re going off to college in Manhattan and I’m not.” 

Now I pulled my hand away and signed: _But you got into Columbia, didn’t you?_

“I did,” You said, a troubled look on your face, “But I talked to my dad, and he won’t budge. I have to go to Wesleyan, just like he did.” 

My heart skipped a beat. _In Massachusetts?!_ I signed with wide eyes. 

You grimaced. “Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” 

My heart began to thump obnoxiously in my chest, and it became harder and harder to breath. _That’s not fair,_ I mimed, trying to keep my expression stable. 

“I know it’s not. But the old man is too stubborn to let me go anywhere else.” Your blue eyes were churning darker with feelings of remorse. 

_I can’t go without you,_ I gestured, my hands flying with urgency. 

“Don’t say that.” You frowned. “Race, you don’t need me to be with you twenty-four-seven. You’re your own person.” 

_But you’re the only one that understands me._ Fear was curdling in my chest. 

“That can’t be true.” 

My eyebrows narrowed and I took a step back from the table you were sitting on. _It is true,_ I signed harshly. _You are my only friend. Everyone else thinks I’m a freak._

Your eyes flared up with something in between surprise and anger. “You’re not a freak.” 

_I am,_ I insisted. _I’m a freak that won’t make it through college without you._

You slammed your hands down on the table, startling me, “You are not a freak, Race! And you don’t need me to live your own life.”

 _Yes I do._

“Stop--”

 _I need you, Sean._ Pins and needles pricked my eyes as I stared at you in the dim library ambiance. Your hair that you’d refused to cut was now almost to your shoulders and it flopped in your eyes as you stared back at me. Your mouth was twisted into a snarl of sorts and your eyes were on fire with deviance. You were mad. 

You were mad that I thought so low of myself. You were mad that you had to go to Massachusetts. You were mad that I cared about you going away. 

What happened next was not what I was expecting. 

You reached out and pulled me into your arms, lips crashing together knees bumping awkwardly. You held me with a tenderness I didn't know you were even capable of emitting. But I reacted, circling my arms around your shoulders and kissing you back fiercely. 

We broke apart all too soon, my face warm and my entire body tingling. 

But you didn’t dare let me go. Not for one moment. 

“I really like you, Racer,” you said into my ear. “A lot more than you could ever imagine”

I couldn’t say anything back, but I was thinking the same exact thing. 

\---

You are the boy that broke me and my silence all those years ago. I still haven’t forgiven you, but I don’t think I want to. 

Because without you, I wouldn’t have gone to Columbia and gotten degrees in both English Literature and Public Health. Without you, I wouldn’t have gotten the confidence to sit down and write the book I’d fantasized about since I was young, and without you, I wouldn’t have gotten into med school to battle the disease that had disarmed me so long ago. 

I don’t care how cheesy it sounds; without you, I wouldn’t have become the person I am today. 

Because today, ten years after I met you in the library of our old high school in Brooklyn Heights, we are standing together outside of my apartment complex. 

My hands are shoved in my pockets, hiding from the cold, and my nose is buried in the collar of my jacket. You are staring at the ground, the toes of your boots chipping away at the snow-covered sidewalk. This is our tradition, and it has been for the past several years that we’ve been out of college; to witness the very first snowfall of the year together.

Tendrils of white are fluttering down from the opaque night sky, getting caught in your frisky brown hair and your coat. You blow out a long breath through your mouth, and a puff of grey materializes in the air. 

We are not facing each other, but rather standing side by side, staring out at the icy street illuminated only by lamplight. I glance up at you, trying hard to read your mind and figure out exactly what you’re thinking. But your face is blank and pointed, your cheeks flushed red from the cold and your lips turning a cold shade of purple. 

Your gaze slides over and meets mine. 

I slip one of my hands out of my pocket and hold it out to you. You take it, lacing our fingers together and squeezing gently. 

The feeling of the cool metal band on the base of your ring finger presses against my palm and reminds me of the identical one I have on my other hand. I smile ever so slightly in the cold winter air. 

“What are you thinking about?” You ask suddenly, your voice breaking the crisp white silence.

I shrug then elbow you slightly. 

You grin. “Me?” 

I roll my eyes and squeeze your hand even tighter. _Duh._

“Can we go inside soon? It’s freezing.” You say, huddling closer to me and blowing out another stream of white breath. 

_Yeah,_ I sign with my free hand. But I make no move to turn around and go inside, and neither do you. 

I know we are both thinking the same thing, we’re just too afraid to say it out loud. At least you are. 

We never want this to end. We’ve gone through so much and so little at the same time, and we’ve barely hit thirty years of age. But if there’s anything I’ve learned from those hundreds of books that I read during our high school years, it’s that there is an end to everything. 

No matter how intricate or how dull of a story it may be, there will always be an end. There is always the last page, the last sentence, the last word. Some stories end abruptly while others ease into it and let the reader off gently.

Is now our ending? I’d like to not think so. But it’s coming, I guarantee it. 

We’ve told each other our dreams even though no words have been spoken. We’ve pulled each other through thick and thin even though I have made no sound. You have dreams of seeing the entire world from up high, while I have dreams of keeping my feet on the ground. But we have to face the reality of what our lives have become. 

You have become my everything. Standing here on this freezing November night outside my apartment, I can finally admit to myself that you are my missing half, my rock. But I can’t keep pulling you back, no matter what you insist. I’ve kept you here on the ground in my tiny bubble of a quiet world, but I can’t keep you here forever. 

You broke my silence, Sean. I think it’s about time I break yours.

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :) feedback is more than welcome
> 
> chapter title comes from the song "different now" by chastity belt


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